


Heavy And Cold

by UtopiaAnopia



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Basically Stan just being hopeless, Gen, Not really a plot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:17:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9369683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UtopiaAnopia/pseuds/UtopiaAnopia
Summary: Heavy and cold.Those were really the only two words he could use to describe what he felt at the moment, as he sat alone at some shady slums bar, nursing some booze out of a mysteriously cloudy glass.//More or less stretching my writing limbs and venting by making my poor Stan baby sad. Set just before getting the postcard, I suppose.





	

Heavy and cold.

Those were really the only two words he could use to describe what he felt at the moment, as he sat alone at some shady slums bar, nursing some booze out of a mysteriously cloudy glass. The bar he rested his arms upon was just as dirty, to the point that he couldn’t see his reflection in the gloss coating of it, which had been chipping away at the edge. There were scrapes and stains of many sizes, sustained from spills and brawls alike.

Stanley supposed he was much like that bar, as he pondered it. Unable to see himself, worn, beaten down. Chipping away until soon the protective coating would be gone and the world would only gouge out what was left underneath it until it couldn’t bear anymore and it’d be taken out. Presumably to a scrap heap. Maybe recycled, but…

He wasn’t about to think of reincarnation as a good thing at this point.

A sigh left his lips, corners of which pulled downwards by his dense thoughts, as his eyes instead trained upon the bottles and tins lined up behind the bar. He couldn’t read the labels from where he sat. Shame, since he wanted to distract himself from whatever words slung themselves around in his mind.

The only thing he could distract himself with was his glass he still clutched tight in his palm, which he hadn’t noticed was faintly shaking until then, the drink held precariously at his lips, forgotten. A frown tugged deeper at the corners of his mouth and he lowered the drink, watching the amber liquid inside ripple for a moment before going still.

It was quiet for a bar, being that it was one thirty in the morning, close to closing, and not many people went to that bar in the first place. It was part of the reason why Stanley liked it. Not much attention other than the barkeep.

But the silence was a double-edged knife. Silence left Stan with his thoughts. Silence left the man defenseless to his feelings.

His chest felt constricted. Not tight, per say, but with just enough pressure that it made it a labor to breathe anything but slowly and softly. As if laying down on your stomach to rest. Rest sounded nice initially, but given his options—a client or his car—it wasn’t as appealing anymore.

The next feeling was a chill. Though it was the middle of summer and by all means, while wearing a faux fur-lined coat, he should be dying of heat and sweat, he felt nothing but a deep chill that had penetrated his very bones.

It was different from the chill one got when being threatened with a gun or knife. Even different from the sharp cold someone would feel seep into their chest and trickle down their spine when someone says the usual phrase, “Hey, we gotta talk.”

This was a slow cold, one born of dread. One that lingered deep within without cause or reason, one that grew dew on organs and frost over bone until its crystalline arms tendril around the heart and choke out its victim. One that Stanley had been dealing with for a long, long time. One that made the body frail and heavy and stiff, whispering to it that all it wanted to do was lie down, rest, and not get back up.

It was a losing battle; the man knew that much. It had only started as the tiniest droplets of frigid water that seeped down his throat from tears swallowed back, but now it had invaded and threatened to shatter the host.

The only thing that kept the cold at bay by at least a few inches was the burning amber that Stanley took another strong sip of, eyes wrenching shut against the bitter, fiery taste. It always cut into his expenses, but he found that, with how much easier it made most nights when he had to go to war with this chill, it was worth it.

The reason for the cold wasn’t a mystery. He was Stanley Pines. Thrown out of his home at eighteen, before he could even graduate high school. Doing all sorts of odd jobs just to make ends meet and get food in his stomach. He was Stanley Pines, and he’d been doing this _shit_ for almost ten years.

The little voice manifested from the cold once more, wriggling itself into his ear, digging itself into the deepest reaches of his brain until he himself couldn’t tell if it was his own thoughts or not.

_Just give up._

_He’s never once contacted you._

_You’re never getting your life together._

_It’s been ten years._

_You’re worthless._

_Always have been, always will be._

Pressure and an itch rose in the back of his throat, and Stanley couldn’t discern if it was bile or a scream. He wanted to do both. His stomach was in knots, and he’d give anything to make that voice shut up.

He tossed back what remained of his alcohol and then slid the glass away. Instinctively, the barkeep slid over and moved to refill it, and Stanley watched with lidded, hazy eyes. Even after it was full and the barman moved away once more, Stan just stared at the glass.

No matter what he’s done, nothing ever turned up in his favour. All his failed products and businesses, they all burned to the ground. Smuggling had gotten too dangerous, after two torture episodes and some time in jail in Columbia. Bodyguarding caused him to hear things he wasn’t supposed to—he had to flee one too many times before hitmen came after him. All he had left going for him now was what he’d never once imagined he’d be doing with his life.

The feeling was back in his throat, and this time he was sure it was a scream. A scream of frustration, of distress, of despair. He wanted to scream and shout and yell to the sky, asking just one question that he’d wondered almost all of his life.

_"Why me?! What did I do?!”_

This new glass of booze only lasted moments after he swallowed down his scream. It left a sour taste that even alcohol was better than.

Even afterwards it lingered. It weighed down in his throat, as if he’d swallowed a rock. It jabbed at him, painful, and he couldn’t rid himself of the lump no matter how many times he swallowed.

It was heavy and cold.


End file.
